


As Good and as Bad as I

by jonny_vrm (elmo_loves_me)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-02
Updated: 2008-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 22:11:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/92145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmo_loves_me/pseuds/jonny_vrm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>One will tear you apart, leave you angry, but the other could kill you and you'd still die happy.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	As Good and as Bad as I

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Write-something-longer-than-a-drabble-with-this-prompt challenge over at LJ spn_nostalgia. My prompt was: _Bloody Mary: Post Ep: Boys sparring. [gen]_. Beta'd by Erin, because she loves me and she did this like, right now, at 1.00 in the morning because I called her in a frenzy. What a trooper! ♥

_and it's not heaven i'm pining for_

That night Dean pulls into a motel in South Dakota, just over the Nebraska border. He parks the car at an angle across two spaces, rummages around in the backseat for napkins and grunts in triumph when he finds some. Tossing a wad in Sam's direction, Dean spits inelegantly into his own, rubs the damp paper over his face, trying to get rid of the worst of the blood trails he can still feel leading to his eyes. Mary's guilt-blood seems to stick so much better than a good, clean hunter's bleed, and Dean's already washed his face at least six times. He just – he wants to be _sure_. Sam is oddly quiet, stays slumped in the car while Dean pays for a room, hovers over Dean's shoulder while he unlocks the door of number 9 and pushes his way into the bathroom, bag and all. Dean sucks on his teeth for a minute, staring at the warped bathroom door. He hears the water start to run, the slippery thud of Sam's bony ass sliding into the tub, before shrugging his shoulders and ambling back out to the Impala. Might as well rearrange the trunk since it looks like bathing beauty's going to be taking his time.

Sam comes out about an hour later, hair still damp and clinging in places, wildly scruffy in others. His eyes are shadowed, looking down. "You need a hand?"

"Sure," Dean says. His shirt is sticking to the small of his back, sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. He's stripped out of his jacket and flannel over-shirt. The night lies damply around them, the back lot of the motel a small expanse of asphalt between it and a lush field of long grass. Crickets are buzzing busily, small animals rustling through the stalks, their scrabbling footsteps tugging at the edge of Dean's consciousness.

Sam moves forward, braces his hands on the lip of the trunk. He's wearing a pair of old basketball shorts that Dean hasn't seen in years and a white undershirt. The collar gapes hopelessly, stretched beyond anything repeated washings can do, but it lays taut across Sam's shoulders, hugs his ribs like a second skin. The car creaks a little, settles on its shocks as Sam pushes down, puts his weight on his arms and lets his head hang, sighing.

Dean puts down the rifle he's been trying to fit into his makeshift gun rack. "What's up, Sam?" he asks, carefully arranging his collection of crucifixes, running the pads of his fingers over an intricately carved Celtic cross. The silver gleams dully in the light from the window of their motel room.

Sam says nothing for several seconds, standing frozen, before he looks up, hair hanging in his eyes. "Wanna fight?"

Dean can't get a read on Sam's expression. He props his forearm against the raised trunk lid, quirks an eyebrow. "What, like spar? Now?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He reaches into the trunk and pulls out Dean's favorite hunting knife, runs his thumb over the blade in a way that makes Dean nervous. Dean gently takes the knife away from Sam, puts it back into its sheath before closing the trunk, leaning his hips against it and crossing his arms over his chest.

"What's the occasion?"

Sam shrugs. "No occasion. I just want to, is all."

Dean presses his lips together, leans forward until he's almost bent in half, forcing Sam to look him in the eye. Sam gazes blankly back.

"Okay," Dean says. He has a feeling that this is a bad idea and he's not sure why. Fortunately, Dean Winchester was never one to run from bad ideas. "Just let me change my shirt."

Sam follows Dean into the room at an odd distance, three steps behind and one to the right. Dean dumps his jacket onto a chair and roots around in his duffle until he finds a raggedy black tank top, his usual training gear. He quickly exchanges one shirt for the other and looks up to find Sam watching him, expressionless. A heavy, sour feeling settles in Dean's gut. His exposed shoulders suddenly feel cold and he rubs his hands up and down his bare arms, asking, "Where to, princess?"

"How about the field out back," Sam suggests.

Dean shakes his head. "The grass is too long; it'll trip us up if we get anything good going. Any parks around here?"

"You want to fight in a public park?" Sam says, forehead scrunching down and Dean sees a flash of the geeky, law-abiding Sammy he knows, breaking through the unsmiling front Sam's been sporting all day. Dean heads for the motel room door, Sam again following at that strange distance.

"It's three in the morning, Sam. No one'll be out except us."

"And the cops," Sam snorts. "Come on, we'll trample down enough grass for it not to matter."

"Nu-uh," Dean shakes his head. "You want to do this, we're doing it right. I don't think you want an easy fight right now, Sammy. I think you want to kick somebody's ass, and if it's going to be mine then I want it to be somewhere where I can fight back properly."

Sam guiltily averts his eyes, but his jaw remains stubbornly clenched and Dean wonders what the hell Sam did to need this. What the hell did Bloody Mary have to dig up to turn his usually peace-love-and-flowers brother into someone who needed to feel his fist smashing into someone else's face just to fall asleep tonight?

Dean holds his arm out with a flourish towards the passenger side door of the Impala. "May I, m'lady?"

Sam doesn't even crack a smile. He pushes past Dean and yanks the door open himself. Dean mentally shrugs and slides behind the wheel. He glances over at Sam but Sam is staring steadfastly out the window.

It takes them maybe twenty minutes to reach the center of the small town and find a park. There's no one around, just as Dean predicted, it being late enough that all the drunks have stumbled home yet early enough that no one's crazy enough to be awake. Dean parks and Sam slams the door with excessive force, stalks off into the gloom. Dean takes his time peeling off his over shirt and laying it carefully on the seat, drops his thumb ring in his pocket as an afterthought.

"Come on. What are you waiting for?" Sam's voice comes out of the darkness and Dean tracks it as ahead and slightly to his left. He follows it and eventually sees Sam's shape looming out of the night. He's standing with his back to Dean, staring at the small pond misting up the center of the park.

"Waiting for you, Samantha."

Dean's not entirely sure why he's provoking Sam, tonight of all nights. He has a vague idea that it might have something to do with winding Sam up so he can get all of his aggression out in one go, but then again Dean saw something, too. Bloody Mary pasted it to the backs of his eyelids: all the times he's had to stab someone in the back; been too late and had to clean up the mess of some poor father or mother or brother; waited a second too long and had to watch someone do something, say something, become something they would rather have died before doing, saying or becoming. All the times he's never told anyone that he hates what _he's_ become: alone, and no way to change it without ruining the family he'd give his life for.

Dean's long ago come to terms with the fact that he's a bad person, or at least that he comes across as a bad person. Teasing his brother seems practically angelic in comparison, and dealing with the residue this ghost bitch left behind should nominate him for sainthood. He suspects this might have something to do with Constance, too, and that it's something that's been building for a long time.

He wonders what he would've done faced with Constance. What she would have thought about all the times he mulled over Cassie while he was balls deep in some chick, and he hates feeling like what he knows he is: a sleaze. A good lay but not the guy you want to keep around. Then again, he and Cassie _broke up_. He doesn't know what exactly Constance's definition of faithful might have been, but he thinks it had something to do with staying true to the person you keep on loving, no matter what. For Sam, that could only be one person.

This starts and ends with Jess, and Dean is more than happy to help Sam out in whatever way he can. Winchester's don't go in for therapy, but this might be something like that and it's something Dean can do, and do well.

Dean approaches Sam slowly, hands loose at his sides. "Call it, Sam."

"No balls, no eyes, no biting," Sam says shortly.

"And they say chivalry is dead," Dean says. He cracks his neck, then cracks all of his knuckles in quick succession and watches Sam wince. Sam hates it when he cracks his knuckles, always nags him about arthritis in his future. Dean thinks he's got a much better chance of being gutted by a harpy well before he's in any danger of having arthritis. "On your signal."

Sam doesn't turn for a loaded, endless moment. Dean's eyes catch on his shoulder blades, pushing out the back of his T-shirt as Sam rounds his shoulders forward, clenches his fists and stares at the ground. Dean makes sure that his knees are slightly bent, that his breathing is even and that he knows exactly where Sam's sporting a bruise on his left side from being banged around by the airplane demon. He'll try and avoid that spot, depending on what kind of fight this turns into.

Sam says, "Go," spins abruptly, drops into a crouch, and Dean automatically mirrors him, left forearm forward and slightly raised, ready to block. He shakes his right hand out one more time before gathering his fingers together into a fist. Sam lunges forward, Dean drops nimbly back, swings his fist at the side of Sam's head, and watches Sam twist away, come back in a perfectly rehearsed strike to Dean's exposed side. Dean neatly avoids Sam's attack, follows through on the motion by turning it into another hit, this one aimed at Sam's shoulder, trying to stun his primary arm.

They fight for maybe ten minutes, Sam eerily silent the whole way through. Dean is again struck by how perfectly matched they are, Sam with his reach and his unnatural quickness, Dean with his greater bulk, his ability to take a hit and shake it off immediately, along with a few tricks he's picked up over the years and never taught to Sam. Dean's sweating, coming out of a quick roll to the side to avoid Sam's knee when Sam says, "Break."

Dean obediently stays where he is, catches his breath. Sam turns his back again, runs his fingers through his hair on a long exhale.

"I just miss her, you know?" Sam mutters, almost inaudible. He drops his head back and looks at the stars for a second, barely visible through the tree branches. Dean doesn't say anything. Sam turns again, looks at Dean. When he says, "Go," it's almost contemplative.

Dean comes in low, trying to hook Sam's feet out from under him. Once Sam's on the ground, Dean's always got the advantage. Sam knows this and leaps forward, into Dean's move and forcing him to quickly adjust his hit into a block, the side of Sam's hand scything towards Dean's neck. The only sounds are their grunts as one or the other gets a touch, the soft thud of sneakers against grass, the quick indrawn breaths of effort.

Dean finally steps back and shakes the sweat out of his eyes, gasps, "Break." Sam puts his hands on his knees, leans forward.

"Feels good," he says, whip quick.

"Don't it," Dean agrees automatically. Sam straightens.

"You ever loved someone, Dean? Enough to stay? Enough to _want_ to stay?" Because there's a difference between the two, one that Dean understands all too well. One will tear you apart, leave you angry, but the other could kill you and you'd still die happy.

Dean thinks of Cassie. He's never told Sam about her and he doesn't think he ever will. He would've stayed for Cassie, for the way he used to wake up in the morning before her alarm went off, her hair pressed to his throat, against his nose; for the way he used to feel like he was drowning in her when she smiled. He would have tied himself down for her, but she didn't want him.

Dean thinks of Sam. High school Sam, too tall for Dean's old jeans, all stubborn knees and bent elbows, hunched over some textbook at two in the morning because it was the only time he could find to study between being on the road and hunting. He never told Sam that the reason they didn't move around so much during Sam's last two years of high school was because Dean begged Dad – on his fucking knees – to stay in one place, stay in one town, just stay stay stay. Dean _did_ stay for Sam, until finally Sam'd had enough of settling and wanted to be moving and he was off and running before Dean could admit that he'd gotten used to the constancy, the surety, of standing in one place.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Go."

Sam dodges his next punch, knocks Dean's arm to the side and gets in an eye-watering hit to Dean's jaw. Dean shakes his head. He needs to concentrate. He can't be thinking about the past when there's nothing he can do about it, when he needs to be focused on the present, on the Sam he has now. He rushes in close, crowds Sam, and manages to get him in a forearm lock. They stagger together for a few moments, stuck in a tangle of arms, each of them fighting for dominance. Sam breaks their panted silence.

"Was it some girl?" Sam grinds out, teeth clenched. A piece of his hair is sticking to Dean's sweaty forehead, they're so close. Dean shoves Sam violently and Sam stumbles backward, almost falls over before recovering, dropping once more into his neutral combat stance. Dean falls back a step, then two. His shirt collar's ripped – he can feel it flapping against the hot skin of his chest – and he can't remember when that happened.

Sam doesn't know. He doesn't understand.

"You've always been a fucking chick, Sam," Dean spits. He's angry – God, he's so goddamned _angry_ with Sam – and he wants to take Sam apart piece by piece. He wants to turn around, walk away, leave Sam behind just to show that he can. He wants Sam to know what it felt like, what it still feels like because Sam came back but half of him is buried in Jess' grave and the other half always has one foot out the door. Sam's still _leaving_. Sam's always leaving.

Dean's leaving ended when he was eighteen and Sam came home from his first day at high school with a black eye and a bloodied lip, tears shining on his solemn face. Dean cleaned him up and cradled Sam's head against his chest when Sam's lower lip started to tremble, Sam's choked, "I'm always the new kid," trapped against his breast. Feels like sometimes Sam tattooed it to Dean's heart. Dean started town-hopping again once Sam went to college, acted like he was glad they didn't have to squat in one place any longer, but in reality he was still stuck with Sam. Sam was where he stayed. He was invested in Sam, rooted to Sam in a way he'd never been able to connect to a town.

Ever since Sam asked Dean, Dean's stayed. Ever since Dean stayed, Sam's left. What a fucked up pair they are.

Dean turns away from Sam, starts walking. If they keep fighting now he's liable to hurt Sam. He knew it was a bad idea to do this, what he didn't know was that it wasn't because Sam was the unstable one.

He hears Sam's quick footsteps a second before he turns and is knocked to the ground.

"The fuck," he manages to grunt out, tries to gain the upper hand, grappling with Sam who's trying to pin him.

"Just. Let me just," Sam wheezes, gathers Dean's wrists into his hands and presses them to the dirt. Dean struggles fiercely, tries to buck Sam off, to get a hand free, _anything_. They both stop fighting at the same time, Sam looming over Dean, Dean staring resolutely to the side at the gnarled roots of a nearby oak. Dean can feel Sam's eyes on his face, on the ripening bruise of his jaw.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam says, breaks the silence. Dean doesn't answer. Sam shifts around a bit, getting a better grip on Dean's wrists. "I'm willing to stay here all night, if that's what it takes."

"Don't you dare. Don't you fucking dare," Dean hisses, "turn this into something about me. This is all you, numbnuts. You're the one who wanted to fight."

"Yeah, I did, but something's up with you now." He cocks his head. "And you're running? Nice. Real original."

Dean swears he sees red. He doesn't know how he does it, but he heaves Sam up and off and has reversed their positions in the space of seconds. Sam's hair lies limp in the dirt as he gazes up at Dean, mouth hard.

"I could say the same to you," Dean snarls, before pushing himself up and walking swiftly away from the deepening comprehension in Sam's eyes.

"Dean–" Sam starts, scrambles to his feet, and suddenly red light flashes into Dean's face as a cop car pulls up, the engine switching to an idle as a short, rotund man heaves himself out of the bucket seat.

"Can I help you boys?" He asks. He's got a gray moustache and Dean's close enough by now to see that his nametag says 'McPherson,' and he's got a hand on the butt of his gun. The cop's eyes are on the tear in Dean's shirt, and they widen as Sam comes closer and he gets a good look at the blood leaking from the split skin of Sam's eyebrow.

"Officer," Dean says, raises his hands harmlessly, "we were just leaving."

McPherson widens his stance, looks them over disdainfully. Dean's conscious of his every bruise, his every scrape, and he hopes the guy will just let them get out of here. He knows McPherson will take the Impala's plates and it suddenly pisses him off, irrationally.

"Sir," Sam starts, steps forward in that simpering way he has that makes him seem smaller and harmless, that makes people think they've got the power. McPherson visibly puffs himself up, his buttons shining in the flashing lights.

"I think you two should clear out," He says, voice filled with what he clearly feels is menace. All Dean hears is a sad sack of shit who thinks he's better than them, just like everybody else. Just like Sam thinks he's better than Dean. He has to, because why else would he leave Dean behind? Dean doesn't want to think about that.

"Yessir," Dean bites off. He walks stiffly over to the Impala, looks back only when he notices that Sam's not beside him.

McPherson's eyeing Sam dubiously while at the same time trying to keep Dean in his sights. Sam is standing there looking at Dean with the most terrifying expression on his face, one that says, "we're-going-to-talk-about-this-later-you-emotionally-repressed-bastard." Dean wants to start yelling, but he thinks McPherson'd just about rabbit out of his skin.

"You coming, Sam?"

Sam frowns. McPherson's eyes dart rapidly back and forth between the two of them. He's still trying to appear tough, squaring his shoulders, but it's painfully obvious that he's no longer in charge of the situation. If he ever was.

"Of course, Dean," Sam says, voice flat. He turns to McPherson. "Thank you, officer. Have a nice night."

McPherson nods. Dean slides into the Impala, barely gives Sam a chance to drop into his seat and close the door before he drives away, watches McPherson dwindle in the rearview mirror. He's taken out his notebook to write something down and Dean grits his teeth.

Thankfully, Sam waits until they're both back in the motel room, door safely locked and sigiled behind them, before saying, "You're angry."

"What's it to you?" Dean shoots back. He moves to the bathroom.

"I saw Jess," Sam says calmly, the bald confession taking some of the wind out of Dean's sails. He pauses, feels his shoulders tighten. "Back in Toledo. I saw her ghost or something and it made me – it made me want to hurt something. You were right about that. But now, you–"

Sam makes a frustrated sound, and Dean can just picture him running a hand through his hair, eyes squeezed shut in annoyance.

"You saw a ghost and you didn't think to tell me?" Dean says, shifts his focus. His rage is already fading now that he hasn't got his blood up for a fight. He rubs a hand roughly over his jaw, faces Sam. "How many times am I gonna have to say this, Sam. We're in this together."

"Then stop hiding things from me!" Sam bursts out, comes to his feet with his fists clenched and eyes blazing. "Stop acting like everything's okay! Something's wrong, I know it, so what? What the fuck is it?"

Dean's speechless. Sam's face crumples, becomes almost horrifyingly elongated, desperate.

"Please, Dean. Please. If we keep going like this we'll kill each other."

Dean's face feels like he just took a shot of Novocain. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbles through numb lips. He closes the bathroom door on Sam's anguished expression.

He just. He can't talk about this right now. Not with Sam, not with anyone. The wound is still too fresh, the shard buried deep and the infection shivering through his entire body. In his mind he's still fighting Sam, dodging his every verbal strike with a well-placed shield of false ignorance. Sam doesn't get it, that Dean needs this distance between them or he's going to go crazy, to keep going crazy, until it won't be enough to throw Sam off and walk away. Until it won't be enough for a cop to pull up and memorize their faces. Until it won't be enough for Sam to sit beside him in the Impala and not apologize and not even know what he's done.

"We're in this together, huh, Dean," He hears Sam sigh through the wall, and then the soft whisper as Sam places a palm flat against the cheap motel-wood door. Dean presses his own palm to the other side, imagines he can feel Sam's warmth seeping through. Imagines going out there, opening the door, tearing down this last barrier between them. But he can't.

He lets his arm drop, avoids his own eyes in the mirror and turns on the shower.

**Author's Note:**

> (Read the story on LJ [HERE](http://jonny-vrm.livejournal.com/8847.html).)


End file.
